To Bear the Harsh Burden
by Juubi-K
Summary: Obsessed with finding his mentor's murderer, Inquisitor Tiberius Denathril joins an expedition to a benighted Human enclave.  Can he survive infighting and intrigue to discover the truth?  And what terrible secrets will be laid bare?
1. Chapter 1

To Bear the Harsh Burden 

A non-profit-making Warhammer 40000 fanfiction by Juubi Karakuchi

(I'm sorry it took so long to get this together, but I'll try to entertain you as best I can to make up for it. This is my Christmas gift to all readers of "To ourselves we must be true". Just so you know, this is set after "To ourselves we must be true" and deals with the character of Valarion and his people, the benighted human faction called the Alliance of High Humanity, though their 'Codex' name is the 'Silver Men'. Dan Abnett's novel 'Horus Rising' has been an inspiration for this piece, as it gave me some ideas as to how a non-Imperial human faction might look and function. All that said, this is going to be an 'Inquisitor' type story, with a more focus on characters and small scale action, but don't worry, the action will be plentiful. Also, since there is already an Inquistor Constantine, his namesake in my previous work is now Inquisitor Konstantin Vimiero.)

Prologue

"_It was once said that he who fights with monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. Yet the human cannot defeat the monster, for to be beyond the human is the very definition of the monster, or else the divine. To fight the monster is to know the monster, and to know the monster is to become the monster. Better to ask what he can do before he falls, to ask how many monsters he can fight before he himself becomes a monster. As he gazes into the abyss, so the abyss gazes into him."_

_Attributed to Inquisitor Gregor Eisenhorn _

**Imperium – Vermane – Small Ecclesiarchy Priory on Eastern Continent**

"What is it now, Brother Melchior?" the Prior groused irritably.

"Forgive me for disturbing your prayers, Father-Prior," Brother Melchior was breathless from having run the length of the Priory. "There is an incident taking place in the transept. Please come at once."

"By the throne, why must you disturb me for something like this?" the Prior growled, heaving his ample frame to its feet and snatching up his crozier. "I thought the faithful would have taken their leave by now."

"It is a young man Father-Prior," Brother Melchior scuttled along beside the Prior as he exited his chambers and strode along the torch-lit corridor. "I…I don't know what to make of it Father-Prior!"

"Kindly do not panic, Brother Melchior," the Prior replied peremptorily. Two lesser monks had to press themselves to the walls to allow his bulk to pass.

"Brother Faramond fears it might be another case of Gathalamor syndrome, Father-Prior."

"Emperor's blood!" the Prior blasphemed, paused, then made the sign of the Eagle. "Another lunatic!? Why did Brother Faramond not have the Frateris-brothers throw him out!?"

"That's the problem, Father-Prior," Melchior replied as they rounded the corner and passed through an arch into the main transept. The Prior paused, taking in the strange sight.

A crowd consisting of several of the Priory's novices along with some pilgrims and local worshippers was gathered in a semi-circle around the western wall of the transept. Frantic yelling was coming from within the semi-circle, though he could not make out what was being said.

"Brother Faramond!" he called to a monk who was waiting on the edge of the crowd. Brother Faramond was tall and bony, his skull-like head shaved bald.

"Father-Prior," Faramond noticed the Prior and genuflected. "My apologies for this disturbance, but you must hear this."

"What is it, Brother Faramond?" The Prior was surprised. In forty years he had never seen Brother Faramond like this. Being the Master of Novices was enough to harden anyone, but Faramond actually looked rattled. "Who is this troublemaker Brother Melchior has told me about?"

"Here, Father-Prior," Faramond gestured towards the crowd, nervousness creeping into his tone. "Make way for the Prior!"

At his command, two Frateris Militia who had been at the front of the crowd turned and pushed through the throng, clearing a path for the Prior. The Prior stepped through the gap, not noticing the pilgrims clutching at the hem of his robes. He could only see what was right in front of him.

The youth was backed against the wall of the transept. He had black hair reaching to his waist, tangled and frantic. He wore the grey cloak of a pilgrim, though the Prior could make out white material underneath. In his hand was a narrow glowing blade, which he held in front of him like a ward of protection. The Prior understood why the Frateris Militia were being so cautious. Their staves would be of no use against a power sword.

"He bade me!" the youth barked. "He bade me!"

"Bade you what!?" yelled one of the novices, who had not yet noticed the Prior's arrival.

"Now, now," Brother Faramond spoke in the calm but firm tone he used when dealing with troublesome novices. "Put your weapon down young man. This is a Chapel of the God-Emperor."

"He bade me!" the youth rounded on Faramond, pointing the glowing blade straight at him. "He bade me seek it!"

"Seek what?" the Prior edged closer. "My son, who was it who bade you?"  
"He bade me! From the Throne he bade me!"

"Bade you what!?" Looking for the usual signs of madness or Gathalmor syndrome, the Prior looked straight into the youth's eyes. He immediately wished he had not.

"_It is consummated,_" there was silence as the youth spoke again. "_The Silver Men have entered the place of testing._"

"The Silver Men?" Brother Melchior whispered. No one replied.

"_The children of gold and the children of stone shall do battle under the gaze of the eye._" His voice echoed off around the chapel.

His eyes lost focus. The blade fell from his limp hand, the glowing blade retreating into the handle as it fell to clatter on the stone floor. The youth lay slumped across the stones, cloak askew to reveal a white tunic lined with blue.

"A Prophet!" cried one of the Pilgrims.

"He speaks the word of the God-Emperor!" screamed another. A wailing cacophony arose from the pilgrims, of chanted prayers and impromptu hymns sung out of tune, as they pushed against the ring of Frateris Militia holding them back.

"Out!" the Prior roared, feeling the situation slipping out of his control. "Get them out!"

The Frateris militia forced the pilgrims away, herding them towards the main doors. As they did, he motioned at the fallen youth.

"Take him up to the sacristy! Novices, back to your dormitories! Forget what you have seen!" The novices quickly retreated. As Brother Faramond carried the youth away, the Prior noticed the handle of his power-sword lying in a corner, beneath a statue of Saint Morgenthal. Hurriedly, before anyone saw it, he picked it up and thrust it into the sleeve of his habit. As the Chapel emptied, Brother Melchior hurried over.

"What was it, Father-Prior?"

"I don't know," the Prior replied, only half-truthfully. "But this is beyond our remit. I must inform the Bishop of what has happened here."

"His Grace will not be happy," Melchior observed. "With the all the pilgrims at this time of year, there could be trouble when word of this gets out."

"I have no choice," the Prior replied gravely, pulling the sword handle from his sleeve and examining it again. "I have contacts within the Cathedral Chapter who can bring our news quickly to his Grace's ear. That done, we can only trust in the God-Emperor's benevolence."

"May his purpose be swiftly revealed," Melchior intoned piously.

**Imperium –Kar Duniash – Secret Inquisitorial Dock**

The stars were bright.

Not that this was any way unusual. They were always bright. They were stars, after all.

Inquisitor Tiberius Denathril was in no mood for such considerations. Neither for that matter was he in any mood for visitors, Inquisitorial or otherwise.

But the repairs to _Absolution_'s warp drives would take some time. Until then, he was stuck at Kar Duniash , and had no way of avoiding Inquisitor Myeskyn DeVeron's visit.

"Are you certain you will not reconsider, Tiberius?"

"No, Lord DeVeron, I will not."

"This is becoming an obsession, Tiberius." The older Inquisitor stood beside him, speaking gently, as though reproaching a wayward nephew. "I can understand your feelings on this matter, but this investigation has gone on too long. Not only are there more pressing matters that you might attend to, but you've been monopolising the _Absolution._"

"I was under the impression," Denathril turned to face him, his tone vehement, "that the _Absolution_ was mine to use as I see fit, my reward for bringing in Heisenschaft."

"Your reward was that _thing_ you keep locked up on Deck 17," DeVeron replied pointedly. "You ruffled quite a few feathers by moving in on the techno-heretic. Some of our esteemed colleagues had _plans_ for him."

"Another plot to side-step the Adeptus Mechanicus," Denathril snorted. "No wonder the Tech-Priests were so grateful. Draconis was a rare find."

"And may the Emperor be praised that it is no longer in the wrong hands," DeVeron pre-empted him. "But the fact remains, Tiberius. Your investigation is becoming an obsession."

"Would you wish Inquisitor Vimiero's killer to go unpunished?"

"Tiberius," the elder Inquisitor laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "I understand, by Emperor I do. Konstantin was my colleague, and a dear friend. I want to see those responsible brought to justice just as much. But we have a wider duty, and your investigation is upsetting the wrong people."

"I will not be swayed, Lord DeVeron." DeVeron sighed, shaking his not-quite-bald head.

"A shame then, that you will not reconsider," he said wistfully. "It is a rare thing to discover a human civilisation that has not been corrupted. Such a thing has not happened since Macharius. And the incident on Picard's Landing suggests that they are puissant indeed."

"Picard's Landing!?" Denathril scoffed. "Please tell me I am mistaken my Lord, for those were the words of a naïve man!"

"You do not believe the findings of the Inquiry?" DeVeron asked mildly, sounding almost amused.

"No my Lord, I do not. The idea that a pack of benighted techno-heretics could have overwhelmed an Astartes Company is laughable. The Crimson Guardians may be somewhat eccentric, but they are perfectly competent, and this so-called Alliance of High Humanity could not have defeated them without massive reinforcements."

"Which in turn would almost certainly have drawn the attention of the sub-sector Augur-stations" the elder Inquisitor completed his statement for him. "It seems strange, doesn't it, that their Lordships have omitted this fact."

"It's not strange, it's blatantly obvious. Some secret binds these events together. The Crimson Guardians know something, I'm certain of it."

"And they would not tell you, though you returned to them the bodies of the slain?"

"No indeed," Denathril replied. "Neither would they let me interrogate the survivor, a certain Brother-Sergeant Hikaru."

"Strange. Dare I suppose you found the Captain's sword? I thought they could at least offer you a snippet for returning it."

"I did. A rare sword, one of a set of seven. But they gave me this in return." Denathril patted the curved sword at his hip. They had made in the style of their native blades, but enhanced with Imperial technology and Astartes craftsmanship. It was a rare show of gratitude.

"To shame you into shutting up and going away." DeVeron chuckled at his younger colleague's discomfiture. "They have their funny little ways on Joukai."

"It was deliberate!" Denathril snarled. "They wanted rid of me for a reason! Consider, my Lord, that their Lordships would blame the losses on the so-called High-Humans, and then the Crimson Guardians meekly go along with it!? The majority of the weapons used on Picard's Landing were Imperial-pattern! The forensics and ballistics proved it! And what of their ships that escaped safely!?"

"Do you suppose then, that their Lordships are hiding something?" DeVeron cocked his head as he asked the question. "That they are covering for something or someone?"

"I'm certain of it!" Denathril clenched his fist in vehemence. "They could not have made such obvious mistakes otherwise!"

"Then you should not be so certain, Tiberius," the kindly Inquisitor was suddenly deadly serious. "Some things are best left hidden, and your dragging them into the light could do untold damage."

Tiberius Denathril cursed himself for a damned fool. He had let the elder Inquisitor goad him into revealing his position. He had lost the initiative.

"You are putting yourself in considerable peril Tiberius," DeVeron stepped closer, till their faces were almost touching. "It would do you well to go on the mission, for if nothing else it will prove to their Lordships that you are not obsessed. I need the _Absolution_ in your absence anyway."

Denathril was angry and embarrassed, but he knew he had no choice.

"I'll sweeten the deal," DeVeron went on. "If you agree to this and lend me Draconis, then I'll tell you something very interesting." Denathril did not reply, but stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, seething in anger and humiliation.

"I implore you, Tiberius. Do it for Konstantin's sake, if not for your own."

"Very well," Denathril eventually replied. "But I cannot lend you Draconis. It would take too long to teach you how to control him. If it's that kind of mission, you're better off with an Eversor Assassin."

"I'll make do with your Afriel then. Rax was his name?" DeVeron did not seem much put out.

"All right," Denathril turned to face him once again. "Now, keep your promise!"

"Now now Tiberius, no need to be angry," DeVeron admonished, turning to leave the room. "An Inquisitorial Frigate is waiting to take you to Vermane. You had best leave within the day."

"DeVeron!"

"All right," the elder Inquisitor turned to face him again, chuckling at how easily he could enrage his younger colleague. "The young man on Vermane. According to his testimony, he was on Picard's Landing when it happened." He left without another word.

Denathril stared blankly after him, rooted to the spot, as the ramifications sunk in. A witness? What might this young man know?

He _had_ to go. He knew this now, with terrible certainty. To have been goaded by DeVeron was humiliating, but pride was costly compared to such a prize. With the Crimson Guardians keeping silent, the trail had gone cold once again. He _could not_ let this chance escape him.

It took only a thought to summon his companions. Rax, Magos Petrovitch, Medicae Franke and Investigator Sylve Dane entered the chamber within a few minutes.

"I have been burdened with a task of considerable importance," he began, scanning his eyes over the quartet. "I must leave for Vermane within the day, and I may be gone for some time. Until then, I need you to continue the investigation in my absence."

"You won't let us tag along?" Sylve cocked her head.

"I cannot, Sylve. I must go alone this time." Denathril turned to Rax. "Rax, Inquisitor DeVeron has requested your services for a mission he is undertaking. Your acquiesce was the price of some useful information." He hated doing this to his most loyal companion, but what choice was there?

"It's no problem, Tiberius," Rax replied, seemingly unfretted.

"Very good, thank you Rax." Denathril did his best to stay brusque and formal. "As for the rest of you, contact the rest of my staff and continue the investigation. Sylve will be in overall charge until I return. Is that clear?" Franke and Petrovitch both nodded. Denathril then dismissed all but Sylve.

"Sylve, I need you to contact Adept Carius on Mittenhein. Tell him to meet me on Vermane with all due haste. He is to bring Beynon."

Sylve did not respond. Her face did not even twitch. Her dark eyes remained constant. But Denathril knew that the Investigator understood. He sensed her unease. She was the only member of his staff who knew what he meant.

"It will be done, Tiberius."

**Alliance of High Humanity, frontier System DK, Sentinel Fleet Battleship _Kiluvaro, in orbit of fourth planet, Dethneskhir._**

"Report from Sensors. Possible warp distortion on the edge of the system."

Commander Sobukare snapped out of his reverie as he heard the words.

"Any indication as to size?" he asked curtly.

"None, Commander," Nim replied, just as curtly. The trustee-Humanoid was incapable of being offended, even though he was allowed enough sentience for speech.

"What's the precise range?"

"Best estimate 1 billion kilometres." Sobukare did his best not to scowl in annoyance. Long-range scanning was unreliable at the best of times, especially passive scanning. Even if this was a warp distortion, it was probably nothing of interest.

"Did Subaltern Mirosabo have any suggestions?"

"Subaltern Mirosabo insists that it is the Orkoids."

"_He might be right,"_ Sobukare thought. "_But if he's wrong…"_ It was not a pleasant prospect either way. Orkoid ships had been appearing on-and-off for almost a year. The Subaltern's conclusion, though premature, did not surprise him.

"Summon the Senior Tribune," he said. As Nim turned and left the bridge, Sobukare turned his attention to the bridge crew. "Orders off to the Sentry line. Be alert for incoming enemies." The bridge crew responded quickly, showing a degree of the efficiency he would expect from the crew of a battleship. If only the same could be said of the other crews in this squadron.

"Commander." The communication slammed into his mind, adding a migraine to his annoyances. "Please come up to the Augurium. There is a matter requiring your attention."

Sobukare was already tense, but now he was thoroughly annoyed. It was not enough that his lacking the power of the Inner Mind had made promotion extremely difficult. Being unable to process telepathic messages, he had to endure cranial transmissions instead. As he stalked off the bridge, he wondered what nonsensical reason they had for disturbing him. Anger and tension tormented him all the way up to the Augurium, and it was not until he arrived that his anger faded.

But it was no comfort.

The Augur lay motionless, slumped halfway out of the meditation chamber. Blood trickled from ears, eyes, and nose, pooling on the floor. Hands clawed at the bare floor, or rather they had done, for the Augur's body was stiff.

"When did this happen?"

"A few moments ago, Commander," replied Fen, another Trustee. Behind him, several of his fellow Humanoids were helping the surviving Augurs from their chambers. They all looked haggard, and many were bleeding also.

"Was he scrying?"

"Yes, Commander." Sobukare clenched his fists. This was more serious than he had realised.

"Bridge! Ready the ship for battle!"

It was certainly _not_ the Orkoids. He only hoped the misjudgement would not cost Mirosabo his position. He desperately needed experienced officers.

The _Kiluvaro_ became a hive of activity. Humanoid ratings in pale blue jumpsuits jogged past Sobukare in the corridors, moving with characteristic efficiency. Pale-skinned, elfin-featured, their faces were devoid of emotion. They were bred not to fear, not to become anxious, not to get stressed. Such things were human frailties, and there was plenty of that about. The Humanoids and Trustees might be unaffected, but his officers and specialists were another matter. He might not have the power, but he could sense the tension all the same.

Finally he made it to the bridge. All seemed to be in order. A score of Trustees sat trance-like at their stations, linked into the ship's network, coordinating the hundreds of Cogitators and tens of thousands of Humanoid ratings. His officers moved between them, crisp and efficient. The remedial training was starting to pay off.

"Report!"

"Multiple objects passing the sixth planet," Nim reported. "Course and speed constant. Sensors report possible energy blooms."

Then it was certain.

"Where is the Tribune!?" he snapped. They needed the Senior Tribune. The chain of command was absolute. He might be the _Kiluvaro_'s Commander, but only the Senior Tribune could give orders to the fleet. The enemy was closing fast.

"The Tribune is not responding to summons," Nim replied, untouched by his frustration.

Sobukare cursed. What was going on?

"Sub-Commander Kabufiur, you have command. Nim, come with me." He strode off the bridge, Nim following after.

A few minutes of angry striding and a brief grav-lift ride brought him to the door of the Senior Tribune's sanctum. As usual, Dao was standing there.

Had he been in a better mood, he might have taken the time to admire the Humanoid. The exquisite face, with its fine bone structure and subtle musculature, the narrow eyes and only slightly pointed ears. Its body was lean and powerful, concealed beneath a coat and pants of black synleth. Glossy black hair hung to its waist.

How many months, _years_, had been spent in its creation? How many hours of painstaking work? Gene-crafting to the tiniest detail, its enhancements lovingly constructed by the most skilled artisans.

But Sobukare was in a thoroughly foul mood, and attempted to enter the Sanctum, pointedly ignoring Dao until the Humanoid moved to block his path.

"Commander." Even the voice was a work of art. "Lord Nimarkao is not to be disturbed."

"Out of my way Humanoid!" Sobukare snapped. "We are under attack! I must speak with the Tribune!" He shoved Dao out of the way, opened the door with a thought via his circlet and stormed into the sanctum, Nim following behind.

The sanctum was vast and opulent, equal to any palace. The walls and ceiling were fashioned from the most expensive sirochite, ornamented with tall columns, statues and paintings, all decorated beyond any consideration of taste. Sobukare ignored the decadence and strode on, Nim still following along behind him. He could not make out another set of footsteps, but he was still fairly certain that Dao was following on also.

Eventually he found the Senior Tribune in the main chamber. The main feature was a vast panoramic window, covering one wall of the oval chamber. The catamaran hull of the _Kiluvaro_ could be seen stretching out in front, tapering to twin points.

He could also see the other ships of the Squadron, still in their regular positions. He could not afford to tarry long.

"What brings you here Sobukare?" The Senior Tribune was seated in the centre of the chamber. The ornate throne swivelled silently to face him, and Sobukare shuddered.

The Tribune's artificially youthful face was stretched and lined, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. The slight smile seemed oddly out of place.

"Sobukare? You seem troubled."

"We are under attack, Senior Tribune." Sobukare did his best not to let his discomfort show. "Your presence is needed, Senior Tribune."

"Under attack?" Nimarkao regarded this for a moment, seeming almost amused. "Why, Commander, whatever made you think that?"

"Their ships are upon us!" Sobukare almost shouted, shocked at the Tribune's levity. He could see the golden crown upon Nimarkao's brow, the ship's master key. He remembered his resentment at having to surrender it to the Tribune, even though regulations demanded it. Without the Tribune to give to orders, the fleet could not be commanded. Without the Tribune to unlock it, he could not use the command throne on the bridge. Such was as the Synod liked it.

"Of course they are upon us," Nimarkao replied with a chuckle, getting up from the throne and strolling towards the long viewport, his robes trailing behind him. "I have brought them here. It was my will that they be upon us."

"Who, Senior Tribune?" Sobukare's anger was fading, being replaced with something else.

"My masters," Nimarkao's reply was little more than a whisper. "My masters are coming. We must welcome them." He turned to face Sobukare, causing the Commander another involuntary shudder. "There is nothing to fear."

In that instant Sobukare understood, with horrible certainty. He had to isolate the master crown. He had to…

"What is this!?" Nimarkao's eyes bulged. Sobukare screamed as the mental blow struck. He felt as though his brain was crushed inside his skull. As he fell to his knees, it was all he could do to tear off the circlet, breaking the connection.

"You waste your time, Sobukare." Nimarkao advanced upon him, his face twisted in a manic smile. "My masters are coming, and with them the light." His bloodshot eyes lost focus, and his voice became strangely distant.

"They are coming, and with them…bliss. And I shall be their voice… adored… beloved… worshipped… the divine path." Then his lucidity returned, if it could be called lucidity.

"I can't let you get in the way, my dear Sobukare. You must wait here, to greet the coming dawn. Nim, make sure he doesn't do anything…ill-advised."

Nim did not respond. Nimarkao stared at the Trustee in a mixture of confusion and anger. It was now Sobukare's turn to chuckle as he drew the en-pistol at his hip.

"I couldn't cut you off, _Tribune_," he spat the title as he got to his feet. "But I only need Nim." He smiled in grim satisfaction as the Trustee drew his own en-pistol. Both of them knew what had to be done.

Dao had been there after all. And were it not for Nim, that one blade-like chop might have crushed his spine, paralysing or killing him. He darted away as Nim raised his en-pistol to fire, only to have it knocked aside by Dao's free hand, the shot burning a smoking hole in the sirokite floor. The two Humanoids fought, forearms a blur, shots flying wide, neither able to lay a blow on the other.

Seeing his opportunity, Sobukare advanced on the Tribune. The enormity of what he was doing had not yet registered, nor did he particularly want to think about it. The Tribune, who now scrambled away from him in terror, was his appointed superior, and worth his life a hundred times over.

"What will you do!?" Nimarkao hissed, backing away as Sobukare advanced. "Summon the Keepers? No, Commander, not even the _Okairo_ can stop my Masters!"

For that one occasion, Sobukare felt a remarkable affection for the Alliance secret police. Now, only they could protect him from the Synod. Only they would understand why he was doing this.

Nimarkao thrust a blue-veined hand forward. Sobukare felt himself being flung backward across the chamber, feeling as though his whole body was on fire. He barely felt himself hit the far wall, such was the pain.

By some superhuman effort, he tried to rise. Nimarkao was now standing up, arms spread wide, wreathed in unnatural light. Sobukare tasted metal in the air as his ragged breaths became clouds of white vapour. Why was it suddenly so very cold? And how had the Tribune achieved such power? It had not been in his file.

"The divinity flows through me!" Nimarkao roared in crazed exultation, eyes glowing, lightning crackling about him. Dao moved to stand beside him, and Sobukare guessed that Nim was in no position to help.

It was his last coherent thought before the psychic onslaught struck home.

* * *

(A Merry Christmas to all to whom it is relevant. Hopefully this chapter, very long by my usual standards, will keep you entertained long enough for me to prepare the next one.) 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"_The people of Cetshwayo are my one care, my over-riding temporal responsibility. The Emperor knows this, as he knows my sincere and true heart. All I have done I have done not for my own profit or sport, but for the wellbeing of my people."_

_King My'thyo L'farga, Imperial Governor of Cetshwayo, shortly before his execution for tithe evasion. _

**Imperium – Vermane – Small Ecclesiarchy Priory on Eastern Continent**

It had not taken long for matters to progress. Two female visitors, hooded and cloaked, were proof enough that someone was taking the Prior's report very seriously.

"Sisters, I bid you welcome." Brother Faramond inclined his bald head. "I trust your journey was not too onerous?"

"Not too onerous brother," replied the taller of the two, lowering her hood to reveal a marble-cut face with harsh grey eyes. Her confident bearing, along with her distinctive hairstyle, made her allegiance unmistakable. "Please announce us to the Prior."

Brother Faramond bowed again, concealing his trepidation, and hurried away through a side door, leaving the nave deserted. Flickering candles cast writhing shadows on the walls, seeming to dance to and fro between the arched stone pillars running either side of the nave. It gave the place an atmosphere of subtle menace.

"Was it right to dismiss him so?" The other lowered her hood, revealing a younger face with long hair hanging unbound.

"We are of the Sororitas, child" her companion replied. "And we do not have time for pleasantries. This is a matter of great import to the Missionarius Galaxia and to the Ecclesiarchy as a whole."

"I am aware, Sister. It will…" she stopped suddenly as the rotund Prior entered through the door by which Brother Faramond had left, striding with affected dignity, wearing a red chasuble evidently donned in a hurry. He inclined his head as he reached the duo.

"Sisters, we are honoured to have you here. I am the Prior of this humble house. It was I who contacted his grace the Bishop on this matter."

"I am Sister-Superior Mariel Kytaro of the Order of the Seeker in the Night." Sister Mariel acknowledged his respect with a brief nod. "This is my ward, Jeanne of Calion. We would see the young man immediately."

"Yes? I mean…yes of course!" the Prior spluttered, gesturing for the pair to follow.

The sacristy was fairly large, considering the size of the Priory overall. Images of Imperial saints covered the walls, the wardrobes and cabinets. Rich carpets covered the floors, which were of finely-cut stone. The one window was set with stained glass in an image of Saint Morgenthal. It was also, they noticed, somewhat warmer than in the nave and better lit.

"This is the young man," the Prior gestured at a thin mattress, seeming rather innocuous in the richly-decorated chamber. On it lay a young man, his face well-proportioned with high cheekbones and narrow eyes, framed with long black hair reaching to his waist. A pilgrim's grey cloak had been laid over him as an improvised blanket.

"How long has he been like this?" Sister Mariel asked, as Jeanne knelt beside the mattress.

"He has slept like this since he collapsed, a week ago," the Prior replied. "We could gain no response from him."

"He is tormented, Sister-Superior," Jeanne laid one delicate hand on the youth's sweat-stained brow. "His eyes move, and he sweats profusely." Indeed, Mariel could see his eyes moving frantically under the eyelids. His lips twitched as though to speak, but no sound came.

"Tell me again," she said to the Prior, who was looking rather nervous. "What _exactly_ did he say?"

"He said that someone '_bade him'_, Sister," the Prior replied. "He said that he was bidden '_from the throne'._ Also, something about children of gold and of stone doing battle under the eye. I could not make sense of it, Sister."

Mariel did not reply, but reached under her cloak and brought forth a pict-slate. Tapping the icons in a pattern the Prior could not make out, she moved back over to the mattress and held the pict-slate close to the boy's face. On it was a frozen image, of a young man in white, leading a charge of strange elfin-eared warriors. The Prior craned his neck to see the image, noting the strange pictograms and gothic script superimposed at the edges of the image. He got the impression that something had recorded it, but exactly _what_ he could not tell.

"They are alike," Jeanne said, just a little emotion creeping into her tone.

"Yes," Mariel stood up, putting away the pict-slate. "He is the one to whom the Crimson Guardians referred. He is Valarion of the Alliance of High Humanity."

"Our purpose is clear then, Sister."

"Yes," Mariel turned to face the Prior, who backed away quickly. "Father Prior, we will remove this youth as soon as transport can be summoned. By the authority of the Orders Sabine and the Adepta Sororitas, I lay claim on him."

"As…as you wish, Sister," the Prior stammered, more than a little relieved that she had not chastised him for eavesdropping. "But…must transport be summoned? Is he of such import?"

"More than you realize, Father-Prior," Mariel headed through the door and out into the transept. The Prior had the good sense not to follow.

"Your grace, we have found him."

"You are certain?"

"Yes. His face matches the image we were given." There was a hiss of what might have been satisfaction over the vox.

"Remain where you are. We will be with you in a few hours, but there have been…complications."

"What do you mean, your grace?"

"An Inquisitorial Frigate entered orbit less than an hour ago. I have only just received word."

Mariel cursed, then made the sign of the Eagle. Getting Valarion off the planet was already going to be difficult, but the last thing she needed was interference from the Inquisition.

"How did they find out?"

"I don't know. But do not let the Inquisition take him. Use force if you must. We cannot afford to lose him, especially not to the Inquisition."

"I understand, your grace."

"And keep an eye out for PlanSec. I don't know what they know, but I'll wager they've been listening. The Emperor Protects." The vox cut off before she could reply.

**

* * *

**

**Vermane – Eastern Continent – Stahlheim City **

The Aquila Transport's engines thundered as they calmed, hydraulics hissing and clanking as they came to rest on the landing pad of the Ministry of Planetary Security's continental sub-headquarters. The reinforced-plasteel roof groaned as it slid back into place, blocking out the stars above and concealing the landing pad from prying eyes.

The ramp clunked as Tiberius Denathril came down. Two lines of grey-uniformed PlanSec guards snapped to attention as he stepped off and onto the scorched plasteel of the landing pad. Before him stood an aging, grey-haired PlanSec higher-up, a General if his rank insignia were anything to go by. He snapped off a salute, the medals on his white jacket jingling.

"My Lord Inquisitor. Welcome to Vermane." His voice was clipped and harsh. "I am General Freidmann of the Vermane System Ministry of Planetary Security."

"It was you who noted the presence of the outsider?" Denathril replied abruptly. He was in no mood for pleasantries, even if an Imperial Inquisitor's arrival could warrant a full PDF Review with air-shows and services of thanksgiving. Some of his colleagues had inflated opinions of themselves.

"Yes my Lord. An informer of ours reported his presence at a small priory outside Cyrinsgard. I trust the portfolio was all in order?"

"All in order, General." Denathril was carrying the portfolio under his arm. "But I have important business to attend to."

"Of course my Lord. This way."

After a long walk through a series of sterile-looking cream-painted corridors, they entered a large room with a holoprojector in the middle of the floor and a series of dark screens lining the walls. Younger officers in grey uniforms sat at stations under the screens, others moving between them, conversing in low voices, engaging in what appeared to be everyday secret police work. They stepped up to the holoprojector, which had a servitor wired into a terminal on one side.

"Bring up the Cyrinsgard map, File A42-44768" Freidmann said perfunctorily. The servitor made no reply. A servo-arm extending from its shoulder drew a thin datacard from a rack in what was once its stomach and pushed it into a slot on the terminal in front. The holoprojector hummed to life, displaying a three-dimensional map of a small town. One building some distance outside the town was highlighted in red, with the road leading to it highlighted in blue. Other buildings were highlighted in pink, none of which were on the highlighted route or the similarly highlighted smaller roads branching off it.

Denathril had to admit, PlanSec was nothing if not thorough.

"I assume that is the priory," he pointed out the building highlighted in red.

"Indeed, my Lord." Without any prompting, the servitor withdrew the card and replaced it with another. The map fell away leaving only the priory, which expanded to provide a more detailed image. Denathril could even make out the doors and windows, all highlighted in blue of course.

"We are certain that the subject is still inside. But two other subjects entered the priory just before you arrived. Our agent on the ground sent a picture." Another card, and an image appeared, showing two cloaked figures entering the priory through the main door.

"Then it is certain the Ecclesiarchy is on to him," Denathril said darkly. "But there may yet be time. Have they sent any signals?"

"One secure channel from the priory to Saint Morgenthal's shortly after they arrived. We have a recording, but it's still being decoded."

"Show me." The mechanical arm moved again, one datacard removed, one put in its place. The image of the priory disappeared and was replaced with a ream of scrambled gibberish, with one or two recognizable words and letters in Imperial gothic here and there.

"It's a Sororitas code," Denathril's tone was grim. "Favoured by the Orders Sabine."

"General!" Both looked to see a younger officer, a lieutenant by his insignia, standing nervously to attention opposite them.

"Report!" the General snapped.

"Forgive me, my Lord Inquisitor, General," the young lieutenant swallowed, evidently nervous. "But we've received a report from observer team 7A in the capitol. Activity at the Cathedral." He thrust out a sheet of plas-paper in one gloved hand. Freidmann grabbed it from him and read it quickly, his eyes sliding back and forth like pendula.

"Fuelling two gunships," he hissed. "My Lord, it seems we are running out of time."

"Exactly how far away is the capitol?"

"2,480 kilometres my Lord. If you leave now there's a chance you'll beat them."

"Indeed," Denathril eyed the General suspiciously. "I will be requiring transport, of course."

"Yes…my lord." Freidmann had done his best, but he could still detect the reluctance. "There should be a helicopter on standby over in C-block. Lieutenant, show his lordship there." The Lieutenant saluted, utterly failing to conceal his rising panic, and gestured for Denathril to follow.

They walked in silence for a while, their boots thumping on the thin carpet. Not that Tiberius had much to talk about.

"_Two gunships? Evidently the Ecclesiarchy want him as well. For the Missionarius Galaxia perhaps? This could complicate things."_

Almost certainly if the Orders Sabine were really involved. It would explain the gunships if nothing else.

"I hope this helicopter of yours is fast, Lieutenant Walpur." It was not exactly polite to go rifling the boy's mind, but Denathril was tired of calling him Lieutenant.

"You should reach Cyrinsgard within an hour, my Lord," Walpur replied, his answer making Denathril curse inwardly. The capitol was over 2000 kilometers away, but Sororitas gunships, if indeed that's what they were, could easily manage the distance in an hour. This would be cutting it fine indeed.

"My lord, I…"

"Lieutenant Kirin Walpur," Denathril cut the boy off. "If you wish to succeed in an organization such as PlanSec, then you must learn not to piss your pants in the presence of superiors who can have you disposed-of on a whim. This is an important skill and invaluable vis-a-vis your promotion and mortality prospects."

"Yes my Lord," Walpur all but spluttered the words. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

"You may address me as Inquisitor, Lieutenant." He was growing tired of being called 'lord'. "By the way, was their anything else?" He nodded at the bundle of documents and heavy-looking cylinders Walpur was somehow managing to carry under one arm.

"Yes, Inquisitor," Walpur followed with the considerable feat of managing to extract one of the cylinders while moving and without spilling the whole lot on the floor. "This arrived care of the Governor's residence. It has an Inquistorial cipher." Denathril took the cylinder, noted the cipher, pulled out the document and scanned it quickly.

"Well that's one thing," he slid the document into the cylinder and handed it back to Walpur. "Take a message Lieutenant. They are to proceed at the PlanSec safehouse in Cyrinsgard and show appropriate caution. Is that quite clear?"

"Yes Inquisitor." On top of everything else, Walpur had managed to draw out an archaic reservoir-pen and notepad, and had written down the message without dropping anything. "I will need to…"

They stopped suddenly as they came to the end of the corridor. Two more grey-uniformed PlanSec officers came past with a straitjacketed man held between them. The man had a bag on his head. As they turned the corner and continued, Denathril put it out of his mind.

C-block turned out to be pretty much identical to the block they had vacated, and he didn't even know which block that was. He had noted a complete lack of directional signs or markings of any kind on the walls. Presumably this was to make infiltration or escape more difficult.

As Walpur arranged for his return message to be sent, Denathril examined the helicopter standing idle on the landing pad in front of him, being attended-to by an enginseer and two servitors. It was an archaic design dating back to ancient Terra, painted a light grey. A fuselage not dissimilar in shape to an Imperial Navy Valkyrie though somewhat larger, topped with a four-blades which, if he understood this technology correctly, rotated at high speed to keep the machine airborne. A rotary assault-cannon protruded from the chin, and two cockpits faced forward, one slightly above and behind the other.

"Is it ready?"

"It is ready, Inquisitor," the enginseer replied, his artificial voice harsh and metallic-sounding. As he spoke, Walpur returned with two flight-suited pilots in tow. They snapped to attention as Walpur halted, faces hidden behind mirror-visors.

"Inquisitor, I have sent the message, it is received and confirmed," Walpur rattled off, seeming a little impatient. "You are cleared to leave as soon as the roof is open."

"Excellent," Denathril replied. "Come along then." He turned to the helicopter as the pilots climbed into their cockpits.

"Inquisitor?" Walpur blinked in surprise. Denathril stopped and half-turned to regard him. His opinion of the boy had just been confirmed.

"You are authorized for firearms I assume?" he nodded at the autopistol holstered at the Lieutenant's waist.

"Yes, Inquisitor, but…"

"Are you hard of hearing, Lieutenant?"

"No…Inquisitor." Walpur gulped, then clambered into the helicopter, the roof above rumbling as it began to open. Denathril strapped himself in, listening to the whine as the main rotor began to turn. The doors on either side of the compartment slid shut. In a few moments the whine was drowned by a harsh staccato tapping as the blades reached full speed, the helicopter lifting off.

Denathril relaxed, ignoring the tug of inertia as the helicopter leaned forward and accelerated. Craning his head sideways, he could see the city of Stahlhein laid out. The simplistic, stacked architecture of the administrative district, looking like something made by a child with building blocks. Endless rows of seemingly-identical kilometer-long hab-blocks, a grid-pattern of tiny lights below him. The vast fabricatories were just visible in the distance, glowing red like a false sunrise, still churning out the battle tanks, APCs and support vehicles of which the Imperial Guard was in constant need.

Right now more than ever, Denathril thought. The founding ceremony was in two days, and they would be working up to the last minute to ensure that the fifty new regiments would be fully equipped.

Either that or heads would roll, and not just heads. No Imperial Governor wanted _that_ kind of embarrassment, especially not during a founding.

Looking up, he could see the headquarters building receding into the darkness, a set of tall skyscrapers that seemed to have merged together like ancient trees. Then he looked at Walpur, who looked ready to be sick.

He was young, Denathril thought, and looked it. His hair was black and neatly combed, with trimmed eyebrows and nervous-looking eyes. He seemed basically fit, but not exactly in shape. Denathril sighed inwardly. The boy was a bureaucrat in the making, with what appeared to be an almost feminine aptitude for multi-tasking. That he had been able to walk down a corridor, carrying far too much, pick exactly the items Denathril wanted, and even write notes, _without dropping anything,_ was evidence enough of that.

This was almost certainly his last chance.

**

* * *

****Alliance** **of High Humanity – Dethneskhir **

Palinek, Chief Sorceror of the Desecrator Legion, truth-sayer to the Death-Angel, regarded his surroundings

These Alliance ships were very different to what he was used to. Everything around him was smooth and slick, walls and floors of silver-coloured metal in which his armoured form cast misshapen reflections. Flat, featureless screens across which bright runes and sigils danced at the brush of a finger. It had taken a few attempts to use them without driving his finger through in a shower of sparks. The illumination strips set in the ceiling and walls bathed everything in harsh, sterile light.

As much as it made him think kindly of the brooding shadows and dank air of the _Lord of Vandilore, _it was not enough to dissuade him from his purpose. The _Kiluvaro_ was a treasure beyond compare, and through his masterful plotting, and no small assistance from the dark gods, that it had been taken entirely intact. That the interior was not what he was used to was nothing more than a minor irritant.

It had any number of useful nick-nacks on board, so many that he had not yet had time to inspect them all. The most immediately useful however was the Sky Bastion, on which he presently stood.

It was small as such constructs went, only a few-hundred meters long, built like a starship but not warp-capable, needing to be brought to and from the battlefield by a mothership such as the _Kiluvaro_. It was nonetheless of considerable use, equipped with void-shields, a considerable arsenal of energy and missile weapons, along with an extensive command-and-control suite. It appeared to be the Alliance equivalent of an Imperial Leviathan, but somewhat smaller and airborne.

To his left, like raptors with spread wings, Doomlord assault craft streaked away from the _Lord of Vandilore, _bearing reinforcements to the battles in the western hemisphere. The great Styx class heavy cruiser loomed over the helpless planet, a sword aimed for its still-beating heart, flight after flight of Hell Talon fighter-bombers swarming away like locusts. Before him he could see the blooms of flame still covering much of the larger southern continent, a great black pall spreading in all directions about it, already covering the entire southern hemisphere. The orbital bombardment had done its work well.

And beside him stood the being who had made it all possible.

"Does it please you, Dao?" he asked, his voice distorted by his helm-vox.

"It does," the Humanoid replied, staring down at the burning continent. "This is a great day for our cause."

"And ours also," Palinek allowed no more emotion into his voice than Dao did. "Thanks to the Alliance codes you gave us, we destroyed forty-per-cent of their ground forces from orbit, to say nothing of the boon that is the _Kiluvaro_."

"I trust my brothers were of help in securing it?"

"They were. I wish to make a gift of the _Kiluvaro _to my lord Malcidar. I could not present it to the Harbinger in anything but pristine condition."

They stood silent for a while as the Sky Bastion descended through the upper atmosphere. There was no ground fire; no beams of incandescent destruction lanced up from the surface, no torpedoes rose on tails of fire to blast them from the sky. The Humanoid crew, provided by Dao, sat calmly at their stations. Their hands sat steady on the opaque screens, electoos glowing as their minds linked to the Sky-Bastion's systems, runes dancing in response to their thoughts.

The plan was working, thus far.

"Lord Palinek," one of the Humanoid crew spoke up. "Lord Zer'faru is transmitting."

"Very well," Palinek sighed inwardly. "On the main monitor."

"Ah Sorcerer!" the voice boomed forth even before the image had time to form. "I see you are still alive. Your scheme is working then, I trust?"

"All is well, Zer'faru," Palinek replied, staring up at the screen and trying not to get angry. "How go your battles?"

"As well as can be expected," the visage that was Zer'faru replied airily. "Though our minions have had some problems. Those Humanoids are such stubborn creatures, delightful though they are to behold."

"The Death's Head Legion is a finite resource, Zer'faru." It was all Palinek could do not to lose his temper. "Kindly do not exhaust it prematurely."

"You'll never change, Sorcerer," Zer'faru's divinely-crafted face twisted into a grimace of amusement. "Always you prattle on about the so-called _big picture._" The grimace became a sneer of contempt. "Are you a warrior or a quartermaster, _Lord_ Palinek?"

"I serve the Harbinger as you do, with my strengths," Palinek replied with complete equanimity. "Though I would serve him best if I were allowed to complete my plan without interruption."

"Just make sure you don't make a complete fool of yourself," Zer'faru cocked his beautiful head, smiling generously. "Also, bring me a nice young virgin psyker and I might forgive your insolence." His image vanished from the screen, and Palinek felt his head clear.

"You seemed…distracted by him," Dao observed.

"_I should have known it wouldn't affect you," _Palinek thought irritably. Zer'faru was as beautiful to behold as his voice was to hear. To deny it was self-defeating, like denying that stars shone. Such were the gifts of Slaanesh.

"We are approaching the Serayen Fortress," Dao went on, craning his neck slightly to see. As the clouds rolled away around them, they could see the Serayen mountain range below. A parade of tall mountains, thrown up millennia ago by a tectonic collision of unimaginable violence, capped with snow and wreathed at the peaks in cloud. One of the white peaks was pock-marked with dull-grey growths, great bastions and gun batteries built to defend the most vital fortress on Dethneskhir. The shimmering dome of a void shield covered it all, capable of resisting all but the most massive orbital bombardments.

That was not an option. Who knew what treasures could be found within?

"It is time, Dao. I hope for both our sakes that they will accept your clearance codes. That void shield will complicate things otherwise." And it would. He did not particularly want to spend weeks besieging such a stronghold.

"My life in payment if they do not, Lord Palinek" Dao replied, striding across the bridge to one of the control terminals. Palinek watched in mild interest as Dao placed one exquisite hand on the console and closed his eyes, the electoos on his hand glowing. The sorcerer returned his attentions to the mountain below, his mind's eye scanning over the rugged surface, noting the gun turrets and missile batteries, the auspexes and vox-transmitters. He scanned, searching for any indication of a response, any sign that his plan had failed.

"They have accepted my story, Lord Palinek," Dao called from the console. True to his word, the void shield shimmered and faded, inviting them to come forth.

"Come then, Dao" Palinek turned and headed for the grav-lift at the back of the bridge. "We will teleport as soon as we are under the shield."

The grav-lift bore them down to the main teleportarium. Down below the lights were noticeably dimmer and the atmosphere was dank, heavy with more familiar scent. The teleportarium had not been taken easily. Dried blood caked the walls long after the corpses of human and humanoid alike had been dragged away.

Thirty traitor marines awaited them, clad in armour of dark blue, with red on the helmets, shoulders, knees and boots, brass rims wrought into spikes and fanged, snarling mouths. They clutched ornate boltguns and heavy bolters, dragon-headed flamers and a single humming meltagun. Grenades of all shapes and sizes hung at their waists. Serrated machetes were strapped to their thighs.

Their leader stood apart from them, armoured in similar colours, a heavy black cape of daemon-hide hanging from his shoulders, tall horns decorating his helm. He inclined his head in respect as Palinek stepped from the grav-lift.

"Are they ready, Aesherah?"

"They are ready, Sorceror, and so am I," the Exalted Champion raised his head to look straight at Palinek. The Sorceror noted that he was keeping a very tight grip on the sword sheathed at his waist.

A _very_ tight grip.

"It is time," he said, via a secure link direct to Aesherah's helm-vox. Your mission is to secure the main control centre, then the surface-to-orbit weapons. Apart from that you need only keep the garrison busy, then mop up when I contact you."

"As you wish," Aesherah replied, stood up, and turned to his marines, switching his vox to broadcast.

"Brothers! We go now to our mission! These enemies have proven themselves weak and unworthy, but make no mistakes! Kill all you find, but control your fire, for wondrous treasures lie within the fortress below! We shall offer them up to the dark gods, and to our Lord Malcidar, also called the Harbinger, also called the Death-Angel!" Exultant, he thrust his free hand into the air.

"For the Warmaster! For the Harbinger!"

"For the glory of Chaos!" the marines roared back, thrusting their clenched fists into the air, sharing in his exultation. As they filed onto the teleportaria, opaque circular pads set into large alcoves, Palinek turned to see someone coming down the grav-lift.

"Ah, Magos Caermak." It was a strange thing that emerged from the grav-lift, looking like some bizarre sea creature. It had tentacles in place of legs, a mass of long silvery mechandendrites sprouting from the waist, itself encrusted in technology the purpose or origin of which Palinek could not fathom. More mechandendrites extended from the arms and back, writhing in the air around it. The head, if it could be so-called, was in its traditional place, concealed by a hood the colour of dried blood.

"Truth-sayer," it said, its artificial voice just audible over the background chatter of binary code and who-knew-what else. "I thought you might want your puppet. His _improvements_ are complete." Behind Caermak stood a pair of heavily augmented servitors, and between them was Nimarkao.

Or rather, it had once been Nimarkao, Senior Tribune of the 63rd Sentinel Battlegroup, Lord of the House of Nimar, noble of the Alliance of High Humanity. Now it was a naked, shriveled thing bound in chains, runes cut into its pale flesh, the true meaning of which Caermak's barely-biological brain was not capable of comprehending.

It might just come in useful, Palinek thought.

* * *

(A thousand apologies for the long delay. I have other responsibilities and this needed rewriting a couple of times to get it just right. I can't wait to hear what you think of it. I hope this story is starting to make a bit more sense now that the Chaos Space Marines have arrived. I was told it needed a bit more description, so I've tried to describe the people and places a bit better, particularly with Vermane, which I based on a combination of East Germany and North Korea, hence the bad architecture. I hope this all came across all right. I decided on a helicopter after reading about something similar in James Swallow's _Faith and Fire, _and I thought it seemed like a nice, simple concept for a minor plot convenience. Incidentally I'm not quite sure how big a Leviathan is, so please forgive me if my description of the Sky Bastion doesn't make sense, though I'm sure a Leviathan is quite a lot larger than a few-hundred metres long.) 


End file.
